Ausfall
by Linen Tartaruga
Summary: Ausfall. Fail·ure: n. 1. The condition or fact of not achieving the desired end or ends. 2. One that fails.


**Title: Ausfall**

**Author:** Linen Tartaruga

**Characters: **Edward, Alphonse, Trisha, and Roy.

**Summary:** Ausfall. Fail·ure: _n._ 1. The condition or fact of not achieving the desired end or ends. 2. One that fails.

**Rating:** PG

**Word Count:** 2,378

**Disclaimer: **If I owned FMA then I wouldn't be poor and this wouldn't be a fanfic.

**Warnings:** Tragedy; character death; one _very_ vague spoiler for later on in the series.

* * *

There was something to be said for the small pleasures in life. For reading just because you wanted to read. Or researching just for the sake of researching. There was something to be said for being interested in a subject because of pure curiosity, finding a nice long book on it, and taking that book out onto a cushioned chair in the middle of the afternoon and spending the rest of the day just reading, warmed by the sun, cooled by the breeze, and calmed by the sound of singing birds.

Edward had nearly forgotten how . . . _nice_ it could be; how much he actually enjoyed doing research and reading and experimenting. After so many years of pouring his blood, sweat, pain, tears, and energy -- five years of his _life_ -- he'd forgotten. His passion. His love. His thirst for knowledge. Alchemy was the thing that had given his life purpose, even at six years old. It had caused him so much pain, making him forget and warping his memory. But in the end, just as he'd known it would, it had saved him. And his family.

"Brother?"

Edward looked up from his book to see his brother standing in the doorway. He smiled. Alphonse smiled back.

"Dinner's ready."

Edward could smell roast beef through the doorway and, now that he wasn't so engrossed in his book, noticed the sun had already begun to set. He closed his book as Alphonse disappeared back into the house and stood, stretching his arms over his head before he headed inside. His brother was waiting for him just inside the door and he took the book from Edward and set it on a side table as they walked into the kitchen.

"So how're things over at the Rockbells'?" Edward asked.

"Oh, just fine. They don't get as much business as they used to since _you_ left, but there's always a patient somewhere."

"Good," Edward replied.

And it _was_ good. Edward didn't really understand it but it made Alphonse happy to help Winry and Pinako at the automail shop. He'd explained it to the older boy once. He'd said that he'd watched Edward suffer for five years with his automail limbs, unable to even offer any kind of comfort; and now that he _could_, Edward didn't have the automail anymore. But helping the Rockbells and their patients . . . Well it made Alphonse feel as though he were at least somewhat making up for everything he hadn't been able to do for his brother before.

Edward supposed he could somewhat understand that, but he still didn't get how his brother could stand being around Winry and all of that machinery all day. But just as long as it made him happy; that was all that mattered.

The table had yet to be set for the meal, since that was the brothers' job, so they went into the kitchen to gather plates, glasses, and silverware.

"How's your research going, Brother?" Alphonse asked as he poked around in the cabinets for some glasses.

Edward carefully piled up the plates from another cabinet and put the silverware on top of them. "Pretty good. I think I'm close this time; I just have to do a couple of experiments to check the theory. You wanna help me after dinner?"

It was always fun when they got to experiment together, like they had when they'd been kids. Edward felt even closer to his brother when they were performing alchemy together than any other time.

"Well," Alphonse replied, "I have to go with Winry to the station to pick up a shipment. But I can help you afterwards, if you're still working."

"Great. I could use an extra pair of eyes. And having that brain of yours helping me out wouldn't hurt either."

Alphonse blushed at the compliment and ducked his head as his brother reached up to ruffle his hair.

"Boys?" The call came from the dining room and brought the brothers back to reality. "Are you coming? Dinner's getting cold."

The brother's grinned at each other and headed off towards that voice and the smell of dinner.

"The Brigadier General will be glad that you're going to finish soon," Alphonse said.

Edward shrugged. "He would've been _happier_ if it was finished a _month_ ago. Impatient bastard."

"Ed, watch your language."

The older boy apologized and set the dishes down on the table. "Dinner smells great."

Trisha smiled at her eldest son and helped him set out the dinnerware. It made Edward feel so warm inside, watching his mother and his baby brother setting the dinner table. He'd almost lost hope that he was _ever_ going to be able to experience that again. He was so lucky that his expectations had been so surpassed and he liked to imagine what all of them looked like, sitting down to dinner together on a clear spring evening like that one with the sun just beginning to set and bathing everything in gold.

In his mind, they looked like a perfect, happy family, because they _were_. Everything was perfect -- the way it should have been all along.

*****

"How is he, Doctor?"

"Well, it's hard to say exactly." The man clicked off his pen light and straightened up, frowning as the young man lying on the bed groaned something unintelligible. "His brain seems to still be functioning somewhat. He reacts to stimuli, but, the problem is that . . . "

"That _what_? What exactly _is_ the problem?"

The General was obviously getting very upset, which wasn't really very unusual. He'd been getting more and more impatient over the last week or so and more easily agitated, waiting for and expecting results. But the fact of the matter was, they simply weren't coming.

"The stimuli," the doctor continued and stumbled over his words for a moment as he tried to explain what was wrong. "Whatever he's reacting to, it appears to be . . . well, inside of his mind."

The General's frown nearly froze all of the blood in his veins.

"Here," he said, gesturing for the General to join him by the head of the bed. He lifted one of the young man's eyelids and shined his penlight into one of his dulled eyes. Nothing happened. "You see? He doesn't react to outside stimuli, but the nurses _have_ reported him reacting when there isn't anything to react to." The doctor clicked off his penlight again and stepped away from the bed again. "The only explanation I or my colleagues can think of is that, whatever it is his body is reacting to, is all in his mind. A delusion, of sorts."

The General hadn't moved from his spot beside the bed, watching the young man lying in it. "What exactly does that mean?"

The doctor sighed and removed his glasses to rub at his eyes. "Think of it this way: When someone falls into a deep sleep, they enter what's called the R.E.M. cycle. In this state, the body, to a certain degree, reacts to stimuli created in the person's subconscious. Near as we can tell, Mister Elric is trapped in something similar to an R.E.M. cycle."

The General didn't respond, simply gazed down at the broken young man.

"General, I am very sorry, but he's been here for almost a month and, frankly, no one has ever seen anything like this before. We were able to stabilize him easily enough when he first came in -- we're, sadly, used to dealing with lost limbs. But this . . . There hasn't been any improvement in his condition since you brought him to us -- or _any_ change. Perhaps it would help if you would tell us what happened to him."

"We've already been through this!" the General snapped. "That's classified information and even if you _did_ have the clearance nothing I tell you would make any difference."

"Well then, Sir," the doctor said with a finality that shook the General right down to his bones, "I am afraid that there is nothing more to be done."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that after a month of testing, we have been able to determine neither _what_ is wrong with Mister Elric nor what can be done about it."

The General looked shocked, an expression that seemed completely alien to his face. "So then that's it? You're just giving _up_?"

"No, Sir. 'Giving up' would imply that there was still a reason to go on. Unfortunately, in this case, there doesn't seem to be one. What I am doing is admitting defeat. There is nothing left that this, or any other hospital in the country can do for him anymore and it would be too risky to try and move him even if there were. I'm sorry, General, but we would only be drawing out the inevitable if we continue." Once again, the General fell silent, so the doctor continued. "We will keep him on life support for the next seven days to give whatever family he has enough time to come and say their goodbyes."

"He doesn't have any family."

That surprised the doctor, since the young man _was_ so young, but regardless, "That is the hospital's policy. After that, we will disconnect him from the machines and inject him with an anesthetic, so he will go peacefully and painlessly. I assume that the Military will be taking care of the funeral arrangements?" A vague nod answered him. "Very well. I . . . I am very sorry, General. If there is anyone you need to contact for Mister Elric, please feel free to inform the staff." More silence. "I'll let you have some privacy."

The General didn't even hear the doctor leave. He didn't care that the man had. The young man on the bed -- the one he'd been supposed to protect -- was dying. _Dying_! How could that be? How could he have been such a failure to let this happen?

"General Mustang?"

He looked up to see Riza Hawkeye standing in the doorway.

"The Lieutenant is here with the car."

The General straightened up and got a hold of himself. This was not the time to break down. "Colonel," he said, pulling on his coat and hat as he walked past her, "I need you to contact the Chapel of Saint Christopher in Rizenbul."

"Sir?"

"Tell them that Edward is to be buried next to his mother and brother."

*****

Seven days later, the hospital that had been caring for Edward Elric found itself filled. Not by the sick or injured, but by healthy, mourning people. Hundreds of them. All ages, all genders, all social classes. They'd come from all over the country and had absolutely nothing in common.

Except Edward Elric.

For five years the FullMetal Alchemist had traveled all over Amestris on his personal mission. Incidentally, he'd happened to help a great many people along the way. The people waiting in the lobbies, in the hallways, and even outside on the street were all those people. The people that had been helped by Edward in some way; whose lives had been touched by the young man. They'd come to say goodbye to their champion.

Gathered in and around his room were the people most close to him. The Rockbells, the Curtises, the Tringhams, Gracia and Elicia Hughes, Major Armstrong, and everyone who worked in General Mustang's office. General Mustang, himself, stood at the head of the bed, across from the doctor and his nurse.

Not a word was spoken as the doctor injected Edward with the anesthetic. Then, on his signal, the nurse turned off the machines.

Nothing happened at first, but soon, Edward's breathing began to slow. The onlookers could see the young man struggle to take deeper breaths and many broke down in tears.

*****

"I've got it!" Edward cried, bounding through the front door and startling his family. "I did it!"

Alphonse frowned from his place on the couch, exchanging a glance with their mother before standing and walking over towards his brother. He took the paper that Edward was waving wildly around and read it over as both Trisha and his brother watched him silently.

"You did it," he said.

"Yup!"

"Brother," the younger boy said, looking up at Edward with tears in his eyes. "You do know what this means, don't you?"

Edward's joyful expression sobered into a sad smile and he nodded. "Yeah, I know."

"It means you have to _leave_!" The paper crinkled in Alphonse's hands as he began crying. Trisha stood and gathered her youngest son into her arms, though she seemed near tears herself.

"Ed," she said, "are you sure that that's what you want to do? This is what you've always wanted, isn't it?"

For a moment, Edward lost his resolve. This _was_ what he'd always wanted -- his family back together again as if they'd never been separated in the first place. Everything was perfect.

"No," he said finally, "this _was_ what I wanted. But it's about time that I grew up. I can't stay here anymore. It's time for me to go." Edward smiled at his family. "I'm sorry for everything. I love you both and . . . I'll see you again, I promise."

*****

The only thing left on in the hospital room was the heart monitor whose incessant beeps had slowed at nearly the same moment Edward's breathing had. Like a death clock, it was ticking off the seconds until the end, when all of Edward's suffering would finally be over.

A hush filled the room; the building; the _town_.

But just as it seemed that it would finally be over, Edward's eyes opened fully and, for the first time in a month, focused.

Mustang couldn't breathe as he stared into those familiar golden eyes -- those eyes that he'd failed. Even though his entire being was screaming at him to tell the doctor to plug those damned machines in again, he couldn't even _move_.

Before he was able to do anything, though, Edward smirked weakly at him, a single tear inching its way down his cheek, and whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear, "Thanks a lot, Colonel Bastard."

_-End_


End file.
